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coGM
"Boston!" King cried from his spot on the floor, hands raising in the fakest sense of excitement ever uttered by anyone. There was no real reason to his exclamation, King just wanted to shout and keep his dry throat from crackling due to under use. A near hour of wallowing wasn't good for anyone, even trained professionals like Richard King. Blinking the last waves of familiar, lung-clenching sickness from his mind, the blonde sat up and ran his fingers through his hair once, twice, three times in total. It curled like it was thrown wildly through a storm, and did nothing to make the hollows of his face any more lively. He was tired already, of the road and running, but the others would only scorn him for complaining. So, he moved up to an empty bench and settled on staring out the window, mopey, silent.
Washington was restless beyond the glass. Though the rain outside was noiseless and steady, and the sky rolled too slow to watch, King could tell. It hummed with life; pine trees sang by as they swam passed on the high way and shrubs curled under water weight and insects and animals hunted beneath the canopy. Life burned through this state like a fire. Or like them as they fled. Quickly. King hummed a song he deemed fitting to the scenery, silently cursing the fact that he couldn't bring his guitar along for the trip, silently cursing the trip itself. Cursing cursing cursing.
You'll find another guitar on the road.
His mind whispered to him, it's decision set obviously. No matter how much King moped about leaving and the danger and obtuseness ahead of them he knew that staying behind would only kill him. It was a life or death situation, and there was a part of King that really, really wanted to stay alive. He cursed that part of him too.
King allowed himself to mope just a few silent moments longer and then he too got restless. His blood boiled for freedom or, in this case, attention. The unadulterated kind that either lead to fingers tangled in his hair or a tongue coated in venom and insults. He was down for either. King shimmied his way passed Jess and Malcolm, lips pulled back into an emotionless grin for them, and he settled on leaning against Astrid's seat. It took some effort to crane his neck over the hippie-glossed seat, but he did with little complaint and just settled his chin into the groove of his sister's shoulder, staring down at her map with curious and dull eyes. It shimmered in her hands, too faint to point out, but enough to keep his eyes locked on the parchment.
"Why don't we drive down to Cali?" He questioned just to fill the air, sniffing away a sneeze as dark hair tickled his nose, "We could become beach hermits or something. Real fuckin' hippies to fit in with this lame-ass van. That would be pretty tight, huh, Az?" A cheeky grin turned her way, muffled again by her long hair, and then King turned it to Aiden who would be much too focused on the road to pay attention to the mocking gesture.
coGM
Evening was encroaching on Route 101, and as the adrenaline of escape wore away, time seemed to speed up. They couldn’t see the ocean from the side of the road, as it turned out. Thick brambles and leafy foliage blocked whatever view might have existed of a harsh cliff-face on the easternmost road in Washington, and by the time there was even a gap in it, the skies were already far too dark.
Astrid investigated the magic-marked map closely as she followed the roadside signs with some difficulty. “Okay, so it’s not the campground itself,” she said as they neared what would be their first pit-stop. “It’s–well, have a look. It’s just down, and just across from it. I think we turn left down a dirt path just up here.”
Mal reached over the seat and plucked the map from Astrid’s hands to get a better look himself, except ended up muttering, “Ouch. Damn bloodthirsty piece of crap,” as he too fell victim to a papercut. “This isn’t ominous at all. I vote we send King out of the van first. Test subject. Canary in a coal mine. You know.” He swatted the boy on the knee for emphasis with the folded up road map.
"Why me?” King whined, pressing Mal’s hand away as he eyed the map warily. The whole bloodthirsty thing was really putting him off his game, obviously. King wasn’t a fan of injuries, whether on himself or others. His eyes turned briefly to the outside, narrowed out at the darkness and the familiar wetness that only Washington could bring. Dreary was the only word he could think of for the view. "We probably shouldn’t send just one person out.” He said with a slight grin, elbowing Mal in the side, and then he tilted his head towards the others, "Let’s just all head out together, deal?”
”What are you, scared?” Aiden twisted around to face King with a devious grin. ”The whole canary in a coal mine thing is to make sure not everyone dies in one go. Are you saying that you’d sacrifice all of us just because you’re too scared to go alone?”
”What’s there to be scared of?” Jess piped up, glancing out the window. ”I mean… It’s Washington. Nothing interesting happens here.”
”Murders in Verona, spooky happenings behind closed doors, magical people like us, people who hate magic, the Twilight books… I mean, it’s at least sort of interesting,” Astrid replied matter-of-factly and seemingly disinterested in the fact they were discussing shoving King out the van to possibly die at the hands of some unspeakable evil. That happened on a daily basis.
”That’s the wrong kind of interesting.”
"I’m-- I’m not scared it’s just,” King glowered at Aiden, eyes flickering darkly, "I see no reason why anyone should have to go alone. Sounds kinda dumb, honestly. And it’s not even that bad out there.” Though, as he said that, King cast a wary eye to the back of the van. Dreary, dreary, dreary. He gradually rose up from his seat and ducked his head, ambling backwards until he was able to push the door open and allow a sudden rush of chilling, rain-scented air to fill the car. The darkness seeped in soon after, starless and foggy, and King felt his fingers twitch with fear.
It was just dark outside, dark and woodsy, but still his heart thudded and his palms grew clammy. King glanced back at the crew in the car, forcing a wide smile, and silently brushed off his anxious worrying as nothing more than a wariness of the dark. "There, door’s open. Let’s see where Mr. Map wants to take us.”
He hopped from the back of the van and squelched into rain-sodden gravel and dirt, wincing as he felt the chill and dampness soak the worn bottoms of his converse. Ahead, the dirt path was patched with puddles and pine nettles, looking just as soaked as the earth underfoot."God, it’s fuckin’ nasty.” King mumbled, "Let’s get this over with.”
Astrid looked doubtfully out at the chilling drizzle and pulled her arms across her chest to hold her cardigan together. “You know, I’m starting to think our escape was a bit rushed. I didn’t bring a jacket,” she said as she stepped out of the van to follow her brother to either something anticlimactic or certain death.
“Well, if we’re going to California soon, we won’t need any.”
coGM
"Jesus Jess, chill.” King called with a grunt as he fell, hissing as he felt his converse soak in another layer of dirty moisture, "It's either this or getting shot up back home, though...” He didn't feel the need to finish the thought. The forest before them would explain his hesitance easily; words were now just things to trip over, just like the roots underfoot and the frightful nothingness ahead.
King's eyes turned forward, glaring out in the darkness that could perhaps be endless. The rain thudding down around them didn't help distinguish any kind of depth to the void beyond the trees. No, that wasn't right. He could feel depth, even if the black sheen in front of him seemed solid enough to press against. There was a shimmer to the air, just as there was to the map and van. Magic seemed to favor nature, after all. King swallowed the threatening fear and waded after the group, taking note of Aiden's hand wrapped around his sisters with a hideous sneer. If only the darkness was thick enough to hide that from his own wandering eyes. Pointedly, he turned away and rushed to the head of their group, tugging his hood more securely over his forehead as the path below them grew muddier and slicker with old and loose dirt-turned-mud.
It wouldn't be wise to continue on like this, King felt his mind whisper as his hand shot out to catch a low branch and his feet fought to re-balance themselves. A gnarled root had tugged a clean cut into his mucky jeans, crossed right across the front of his shin. There was a sting of momentary pain and then just more gritty wetness which King couldn't help but groan at. "Fuck this.” He said, straightening up from the branch and turn his eyes skyward. Water pressed against his cheeks and eyelids, freezing cold and scented with oceans and rivers that settled far beyond where any of them had been. He felt the magic simmering in the air again, twisting around them, welcoming them. For a moment, he thought he heard whispers. Nonsense words, ringing in the ear that was turned closest to the path. Come, come, come they said. King pushed the noises away and opened his eyes, staring at the group and then the path. His palms felt warm with unsettled energies, and then he tilted his head down to stare at the mucky path and utter an unspoken spell.
The first glints of light streamed from behind rocks and rain-pressed ferns; fireflies without the 'flies' part. They drifted up and glinted warily around everyone's heads, blinking in and out of existence. Some would fade then, and more would replace them, forming from the shimmery magic King could see lining their feet. The forest nearby also streamed with blinking lights, but it only seemed to last for a few feet away from King, seeing as he, the spellcaster, made himself a focal point for the magical orbs. "There we go.” He muttered eventually, nodding ahead. Water dropped from his nose, rainwater mingling with sweat. "Stay close if you don't wanna trip or something.” He shoved his warm hands into his sweatshirt pockets, hoping to retain the heat as the chill of rain once again washed over him, and then he started up after the path again.
And they walked, and walked, and walked, guided by magical fairylights, until the trees on either side of the group cave way and a wall of smooth stone stood before them. No... Not just the wall. A cave was staring darkly forward, yawning lazily. Above it sat an old tree, roots forming the weepy roof of the cave. King only knew it was old because he could feel age wafting off it, enclosing his rain-soaked head in a sensation of ice ages. He didn't like the feeling at all. "Well,” He hissed, taking half a step back, which in turn made a puff of orbs vanish as they pressed against his shoulders, "This is certainly scenic. What are we supposed to do here?”
coGM
When King woke up, he was met with a flurry of colors. A blizzard of lights, swallowing him whole. His mind was his own for a millisecond, screaming out something about a cave and a tree and don't drink the water, don't drink the water don't- and then he felt nothing. He sat motionless on a blank white plain, hopelessly tired. Too tired to move. His limbs were heavy with exhaustion and his mouth was full of cotton and his mind was swimming in a wave of nausea and anxiety and amnesia.
this isn't real
King hugged his knees and stared ahead, blank eyed, blank faced. Blank, blank, blank. He wasn't real; he wasn't alive or dead, breathing or not. He wasn't anything. This isn't real, no one said. This isn't real. King stared ahead, hugged his knees closer to his chest, and reveled in nothingness. Blankness. He was an outsider looking in on himself-- on his dreamscape and his nothingness. King felt his knees against his chest, but he also saw himself moving them closer, hugging them tighter. He saw his back clearly first, and felt eyes on him at the same time. When he turned around to see who was looking he found another Richard King, and beyond him another, and another. They were all blank-faced, literally.
None of them had faces.
King looked forward again and sighed (and watched himself sigh), and when the noise reverberated in the blank air a curious thing happened. Colors formed around the various Richard Kings, glowing balls of warmth and feeling. Little pieces of King, emotions and thoughts and memories. They swallowed the nothingness in an instant, and King watched himself stand to reach for a particular gathering of colors. Blue, purple, orange, green. Suddenly, King was one and he felt a swell in his chest. Life chased away the blankness and he knew for sure that everything was okay. These fairylights were together and because of that they were stronger, more likely to live and feel happiness. The four colors swelled in his palms, warm, full of emotions, and suddenly he was aware of something about himself.
King's eyes turned towards another color, not too far from the original four but just distant enough to seem like an outsider. It was red in color, and glowed brighter than the rest. It burned his fingertips when he attempted to coddle it over to the other lights. His mind whispered, you never did know how to feel things half way. King nodded to the whisper, hands drifting down and away from the lights, and the four colors eventually grew closer to the blazing red one on their own accord, amplified by the heat the lonesome fairylight gave off. King smiled. He saw himself smile again.
this isn't real
The lights blinked out simultaneously and King was left alone in darkness.
He felt nothing again, but the oddly welcomed kind of nothing. It was the nothing someone might feel as they settled in to their bed, late at night, surrounded by the warmth of a familiar blanket and the darkness of a familiar room. The only something that would dare to enter that nothingness would be a sliver of moonlight from the half-closed windows and the buzz of summer nightlife. King felt his head press against a pillow, sleep dragging at his eyelids, sleep dragging at his mind. A guitar glinted against the wall opposite to him, loose from recent use and shiny in the half-light. Beside him his cellphone burned, and in the room next door he heard the gentle strumming of a Beatles song. Everything was quiet and warm and familiar. He was home.
There was the crashing sound of footsteps, coming up the stairs, coming to his door.
He was home.
There was the growling breath of a smoker. Deep inhale, soft exhale. Deep inhale, soft exhale.
He was home.
Three fists crashed against his door. Bang. Bang. Bang. I KNOW YOU TOOK MY SMOKES, DICK. I KNOW YOU TOOK THEM, YOU FUCKING THIEF. I KNOW YOU TOOK MY SMOKES.
He was home.
King was sitting up in an instant and, suddenly, his room was replaced with a distant and unfamiliar forest. His father stood over him with a gun in one hand and a lighter in the other. The lighter flicked to life and then as snuffed, again and again. His father smiled. King had recently been crying, but now he wasn't; his face felt hot and wet with forgotten tears and his jaw was clenched too tight. He was frightened. Henry King took a step forward, placed the barrel of the gun in between King's brow, and growled Si vis pacem, para bellum.
The gun fired.
King woke up in a hotel room. Sweat dripped from every surface, shining in the morning light that just barely fought through the pulled-blinds. Arms were wrapped around his waist, lazy with sleep, and oh so familiar. This isn't real, his mind told him, but his body disagreed. This was perfectly normal. When he tried to move the arms tightened, and someone shifted beside him, mumbling incoherently. King turned his attention to the lump in the blankets beside him, trying and failing to utter a confused 'hello?' or 'who are you?'. His voice refused to work. The lump shifted again, and again, and before King could see their face the lights vanished once more. The room was gone. The bed was gone. The arms remained.
They were back on the white plain.
this isn't real
King stared up at a shadowed face and he felt his lips quiver with emotions he couldn't decipher. A finger dragged across his jaw, feather-light and impossibly loving. It dipped into the hollow of his neck, trailed across his collar bone, explored the canyon between his chest and counted each rib. Down, down, down. King squinted and tried again to speak, but his words were missing and all that was left were fervent sighs. Dark hair moved above, darker eyes stared down, and he saw the faintest hint of a smile blossom across the face above his. King smiled back, and he watched himself smile back. And then King and the shadow were kissing, chaste and light. Warmth filled him, left behind lasting memories on his lips, and it was all too real. This had to be real. They were bodies electric, and the white plain once again twisted into a landscape of colorful lights and magic.
For a moment, the dark eyes pulled back and turned yellow. The hands, so gentle and kind before, became razor sharp and clawed with an ache for murder. Fingers tickled back up his neck, dragging sharpness over every vein in sight, and then pressure eased down onto his throat, strangling him. A tease of red hair danced across his eyes as the figure leaned down to bury their teeth into King's neck, drawing blood, and King simply laid their and allowed the shadow to bleed them dry. Someone whispered Tell me where Haven is.
The shadow person was gone and King was left alone on the plain, completely unscathed. His knee lifted up, poking at a few lights, and his hands lay heavy and exhausted at either side of his head. Tears had started to spill, summoning more, bluer lights into the air, and he wasn't sure when or how they started. King sniffled silently and cried, feeling relief as an emotional weight was lifted from his chest. His back burned. Thunder rumbled. And he cried. He cried and cried and cried until the plain was bathed in blue lights and he was able to sit up and wander aimlessly through the field, moaning out more tears and lights as he walked further and further into the white nothingness. He felt lonesome. Alone-some. He felt sorrow and fear. Thunder rumbled again and he sobbed. Lonesome.
Flashes of something stopped his wandering. He turned his eyes to the sky as various places flashed by a mile a minute. A golden desert, a gray ocean, an endless forest path, a tree-cave, a motel room, a cellar, a city. They were all familiar and, at the same time, they meant nothing to him. The faces appeared-- his sister, Aiden, Jess, Malcolm, a half-shadowed man with yellow eyes and red hair, a half-shadowed boy with pink hair, a trio with faces all blotted out by fire and water and wind, a girl with flowers in her hair and vines on her arms, a girl with wild eyes and a confident smile, two boys held tightly to one another, another trio but one of the figures was pale and almost nonexistent, and then finally himself. Richard King stared down at Richard King, eyes burning despite his apathetic face. He was filled with rage and love and magic, and he was alive.
Behind him sat Verona, Washington, and it slowly faded into the distance. He knew the King above him had nothing left back at that town. He was meant to leave it and grow and discover a place where he would be able to live. The fire in his eyes burned holes into the sky, and the white plain turned into nothing but air. And King fell into nothingness, feeling full of something he shouldn't know yet. He fell for centuries, noiseless and exhausted and enlightened. Nothing was right. Nothing was real. He just wanted to wake up. Wake up.
wake up
And then he did.
coGM
King woke up.
Or-- was he awake? King was looking down at himself again, taking the position of a mourner at his own funeral. Looking down at the unmoving face of himself, trying to wake but being unable to. His body was no one's it seemed, seeing as he was staring wistfully at his dozing face without rhyme or reason as to how or why. King had no energy to reach out, to try to accept himself again. Whatever forced sleep he had just experienced left him feeling restless and euphoric. Ashamed. Without much else to do, he stared down at himself and felt wrath build. Richard King looked so peaceful asleep. That fact burned through King like a war; the mere idea of himself looking helpless in rest chilled him to the core. If only his angles were sharper, his mouth tighter, his scars self-gained and not given. If only he could be as prickly in sleep as he was in awakening, maybe then his demons could leave him be.
What a depressing thought. King pondered his need for a therapist, and then all at once realized he was running away from home and better off just dealing with himself in his own way. An airy, nonexistent laugh escaped him, and then all emotions were stilled in favor of receiving flashes of his rest. Right, right, something like that couldn't be considered a rest in the end. Dreams like that shouldn't happen, not at that level of ferocity and clarity. As he thought back on his dream, silent and invisible, his view shifted from his own face and the cave floor to a rocky ceiling dappled with torch light.
Nerves pinched all over, and then suddenly he was back in his own skin. Sleep paralysis wore off so quickly King forgot he had even experienced it, and as his eyes broke open and his fingers wiggled to regain circulation he realized where he was. The cave stretched out over head, unchanged from what he could notice, and below him the terrain was smooth and chilling. King made to move but his body refused, all muscles screaming out in anguish against him, and this feeling only doubled in intensity as he suddenly realized there was an unfamiliar weight on his chest. King flinched away from it (or attempted to), completely surprised, caught off guard because he couldn't remember seeing a body as he "woke up" originally and he still wasn't sure if his dream was over. Dark hair was all he saw when he tried to glance down, not enough to be Astrid's but long enough to not be his fa--
King tried to sit up again. His nerves twisted and his chest heaved but eventually he was propped up on his forearms and staring down at the sleeping face of what he assumed to be Malcolm. A bit of precarious balancing on one arm and hair-moving later cleared up King's assumption, and he let out a sigh he hadn't realized he was holding. King had no time to be annoyed or embarrassed by the situation, not yet, his mind was ringing wildly as his gaze swept across the rest of the cave. Three other shapes were nearby, all breathing, all warm. He wasn't sure if they were alive but, from his own experienced, King could only assume that they would wake soon with the same sense of sickness that seemed to come with magic-water-induced-hallucinogenic-dreaming.
Worry passed, replaced by a dead tiredness in his bones again, and King settled back comfortably on his arms to throw his head back. Nausea came and went, as well as questions. He was stock full of knowledge and had no idea what to do with it. Memories he shouldn't have yet were now gleaming in his mind's eye, ready to be put to full use. All he could remember about experiences like this were the words "prophetic" and "drugs".
Silence ate at him. None of the others were rising and worry threatened to rear its ugly head again. With a self-contained shudder, King lifted a hand to Malcolm's head (he let his hand linger for a moment, because his mind wasn't sure what to do, because he was slightly embarrassed now, because he always seemed to linger around this drunk asshole), and then reached down to roughly jostle his shoulder. "Dude, hey. Get up--" His eyes turned to the others, narrowed in the half light and blazing with a wish to flee this dark place, "Az, Philly, Jess? Guys? Get up. Get up now, please."
coGM
I dreamed that one of us died.
That thought wasn’t his own.
King watched in choked silence as his friends groped for conciousness. He had many things to say but everything felt too heavy to utter. His mind was slushy, much too muddled to wade through. As everyone stirred so did their words, spurred from their frantic minds. Dream and died was repeated over and over in varying voices, all yelled, all unrelenting. It took him a long while to realize his friends weren’t speaking over each other like his ears heard, and an even longer time to notice that Astrid’s eyes were stuck on him. King assumed she was looking for guidance. He had none to give.
Pushing away the voices in his head, King rose up and pressed a head to the hollow center of his chest. The warmth was gone, taken away with Malcolm as the other had ran to throw up whatever poison (be it the magic or the alcohol) was left in his body. Dark hair, darker eyes. King couldn’t keep his eyes on the retching boy, so he merely turned away and walked briskly over to his sister. King put on his most pleasing smile--a sliver of an expression that lit his face kindly-- and settled down in front of her. He fought off a pained expression, ignored his quickly approaching headache, and then said, “You good, Az?”
Feeling a bit guilty for prioritizing his sibling, though, King looked over his shoulder and called, “How about you guys? Everything intact?” It wasn’t his place to care for others, but really he couldn’t think of what else to do. He couldn’t think at all. Right now his body was leading him through the motions and he just had to be fine with that until he could focus his mind and snuff the foreign thoughts threatening to drive him mad.
“I think I’m dying.” Jess groaned, flopping down on the ground in her typical sarcastic and over dramatic manner. The queasy feeling hasn’t completely gone away, and even though she usually hated lying down on the ground without a blanket, the cold ground was soothing and helped ease the spinning of the world. “Did throwing up help, Mal? I’m tempted.”
Aiden on the other hand remained frozen, even after Jess had moved away from him. He was staring at one place, with his eyes glazed over slightly, not really seeing or hearing anything that was just said.
“Oh, absolutely. Here, let me make some room over by the puke bowl,” Mal replied glibly, and pulled one of the rubber bands constantly found around his wrist down so he could tie up his hair properly. His ears ached. It was an odd thing to complain about, even internally, but it was as if there was a heavy drum beat constantly thudding in it – not just a pulse, but a pulse of too much magic. Clearly, the cave had overcompensated from the power it unrighteously stole from him.
It was itchy. Decrepit would be perhaps a better word given how much older than himself his new and temporary burst of magic was. Malcolm was urged on, perhaps by the apologetic nature of the magical cave, to do something about it – to use up the gift he had been given. He would heal the others when they returned to the van, he decided. Mal did not want to spend a minute longer in the Vision Cave than he had to.
Wait – when had it been given a name?
“I’m good,” Astrid lied to Richard in a small voice as she picked at the scabbing over wound on her knee. “Yeah…” Considering how concerned her brother seemed, both with her and the others, it was definitely too much of a lacklustre answer – just how she wanted it.
Quietly, and after rubbing at her forehead, she said to herself (more than anyone else) that, “It was just a dream.”
But enough of that: she couldn’t sit around on the cave floor feeling sorry for herself for much longer; she couldn’t stand the thought of it. On legs as unsteady as a fawn trying to walk for the first time, she hauled herself up, stabilised by a supportive nudge from Malcolm who wasn’t a jerk all the time.
King sat back to watch. He tried to move but he couldn't, so he sat back to watch instead. He sat back to watch. Someone in the back of his head said Haven and Astrid’s voice was repeating the word dream over and over again. He sat back to watch. Aiden wasn't doing okay, he realized, as from the corner of his head all he could see were eyes and fire. He sat back to watch. Jess’ voice wasn't as grounding as it usually was, it left him chilled and lonely as it retold her dreams. He sat back to watch. Malcolm and gravestones were synonymous with each other.
“I want to leave.” King finally said, though he had no idea how. His body still wasn't able to shift and his eyes were filled with shimmery emotions and his mind wasn't his own. “I want to leave right now.”
“Right, let’s go. I don’t want to stay another second in this godforsaken shithole.” With superhuman effort, Jess forced herself to get to her feet. She supported herself against the cave wall for a moment, absolutely hating herself for needing to use the stupid cave for support at all. They had just woken up from a long ‘sleep’, why was she feeling so fatigued? Every inch of her body felt dull and heavy, with her heavy limbs not quite responding the way she expected them to. The cut on her cheek was throbbing, stretching painfully every time she moved her face. It had scabbed over while she had been dreaming, with dried blood caking over it. Stupid, stupid cave.
Forcing a little bit more conviction to her tone, Jess clapped her hands together as she called out, “Come on guys, let’s get out of here. Chop, chop!” Even without a talent for empathy like King, (or having the compassionate trait to be empathetic in general), Jess could feel the chokingly heavy air weighing down on them almost literally. She glanced at Aiden, who still hasn’t moved a muscle from his frozen position. Was he even awake? He wasn’t here mentally yet. There was an odd look upon King’s face and he wasn’t really moving either. Astrid’s voice was small, wavering, like a candle’s flame nearly getting snuffed out by the wind. Mal, to his credit was still himself — but it was nearly impossible to decipher what was going on inside his mind.
Stomping impatiently over to King, Jess tugged incessantly at his arm. “Come on guys, I don’t want to stay here!”
Turning quickly to face her brother, Astrid looked up in alarm at the vulnerability in his voice, and she was almost, almost the first one to him. A hug or a pat on the back would surely help, right? To her surprise, Malcolm was already there, dragging him over to the large stone door with a forceful arm around his shoulders and as far away from the enchanted bowl as was physically possible.
Light snuck in as soon as Mal touched the door, and it opened of its own accord. “Let’s get some air, buddy,” she heard him say and could only concur. It was a good idea. She needed some herself.
King didn’t like being compliant. Being unable to think his own thoughts and in turn being unable to move by himself made him almost physically sick. Holding onto solid people, however, gave him enough of peace of mind to keep him from retching. Jess had one arm, Mal had the other. Both were interestingly loud minds in their own right. Jess’ thoughts were to the point and unfiltered (and loud, God was she loud). Malcolm’s thoughts reminded King of neverending math formulas. There was just too much to take in.
Dawn light struck him first, along with a sudden weight being ripped from his shoulders as the group left the room. King heaved out a long held sigh, muscles clenching and teeth grinding as his brain resumed its usual task of keeping him alive. There was the faintest sensation of wetness below his nose, but he could only think to pass it off as sweat or cave-water. Ignore it. There was still the sensation of hearing things he shouldn’t and King focused his attention on that. “God, holy shit.” He growled, testing his own voice, “You two think too much.”
“My C in English begs to differ,” Mal said, though he looked at King with some concern in his bleary, bloodshot eyes. The sight of blood, even something as simple as a nosebleed, sickened him right to his very stomach – something he wasn’t entirely used to feeling. It was a new sensation, fear wrought from the contents of his hideous dreams. Mal pulled a tissue out of his back pocket to press into King’s hand. “Here, man; you got a nosebleed.”
“Mmm, whatever.” Is all King mumbled, pressing the tissue to his nose. Whatever gratitude he didn’t say translated well through his heavy-lidded eyes.
“Get the fuck out of my head then.” Jess hissed, “Fortunately for you, I like talking a lot more than I like thinking.” There was an edge of panic to her tone, as she thought back to being unable to say anything in her dream. Agitated at something that she couldn’t quite name, (that just agitated her more) Jess stomped away to blow off some steam by herself, leaving Mal to baby King by himself.
“Get Mal to kiss it better!” She yelled over her shoulder as she forged on ahead.
“Uh–” King shifted and tried to find balance as Jess went ahead, “Uh, okay? Sorry?” He wasn't sure if it was something he had said, as usual, and his eyes drifted over to Malcolm’s for guidance. Darker eyes. With a sudden swell of lights King untangled himself from the other boy and leaned back against the nearest wall. The tissue was blossomed with blood now, and he kept his eyes trained on it as he patted the space between his lips and nostrils.
“You had a dream too, then?” Was all he could think to say, and then in a quieter voice he said, “Did we all? It felt that way. There may be a few things to discuss soon.” Eyes and gravestones and magic circles were included in those “few things”.
“Yes.” It was a short answer, probably not what King was hoping for, but Mal couldn’t really find it in himself (despite the uncharacteristic gentleness of his bedside manner currently) to phrase it in a nicer way. “But… We’ll talk about it in the van. We need to.”
“Fine by me.” King pauses, then whispers to himself, “Let's just hope you guys can keep your thoughts to yourselves this time.”
---
Astrid crouched next to Aiden and shook at his shoulder with a tentative, barely-there touch. She worried at her lower lip. “Need a hand up?” she asked, unsure if he was paying attention to the world around him or if the dreams they definitely all shared had some extraordinary negative effect on Aiden and Aiden alone. Nothing could be discounted.
Aiden didn’t really respond to Astrid at first, whatsoever. There was a few moments of an awkward pause before a buzzing noise broke the silence. As his cell phone started vibrating, Aiden snapped back to attention, his eyes clearing and life returning to his previously frozen features. Slipping his hand into his pocket, Aiden quickly silenced it as he finally realized that Astrid was kneeling down next to him.
Hastily, he managed a half-hearted smile. “Sorry, what was that?” Aiden was distracted, he could swear that he felt his phone was still buzzing against his thigh, even though he definitely silenced it only moments prior. Reaching into his pocket, he pressed the volume button a few more times for good measure; it wasn’t vibrating… But why did he still feel like it was demanding his attention?
“I asked if you needed a hand––Aiden, are you okay?”
“Y-yeah, I’m fine!” Aiden responded quickly, “And yeah, that would be great.” He grasped at Astrid’s hand to supposedly pull himself up, but he ended up not needing it, standing up smoothly by himself. Unlike the others, Aiden wasn’t having any particular difficulty with movement besides a shaky feeling that was more mental than physical.
“How about you?” With a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, he quickly turned the conversation around to Astrid. “You doing alright?”
“Of course,” Astrid lied, but she glanced at Aiden out of the corner of her eye sceptically as if she couldn’t quite believe him. “Just, the sooner we get out of here, the better…” Come on, Az, you can do better than spew cliches right now. She swallowed silently as they trailed at the back of the group leaving, making it to the doors even as Astrid stumbled from the trembling of her legs underneath her. “Well…”
It turns out she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Aiden was a few steps ahead of Astrid, and he twisted around to face her, waiting for her next words. That was quickly forgotten as Aiden frowned at her unsteady form. “You’re not okay.” He stated as he returned to her side and placed a gentle hand on her back to steady her.
Astrid flinched at the contact imperceptibly – the phantom pain returning tenfold. “Yeah, well… Neither are you. Neither’s any of us.”
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